Sooner or Later
by Lynne C
Summary: Spike doesn't figure Andrew can keep his secret, but can't seem to do anything about it!
1. Default Chapter

Sooner or Later  
  
by Lynne C.  
  
Rating: PG-13  
  
Disclaimer: It's all Joss' -- I worship at the altar of his genius, and acknowledge that he owns all these folks and everything that they do and say.  
  
Setting/Spoilers: post-Damage (AtS 5.11)  
  
Summary: Spike doesn't figure Andrew can keep his secret, but can't seem to do anything about it.  
  
Acknowledgements: Thanks to my talented beta reader, Xionin, who lives at www.beautiful-freak.com, whose own work is MORE than worth your time. Go look at it when you're done here!! The dialogue from Damage was taken from www.Buffyworld.com  
  
** To view this story with all of its correct formatting, go to my profile page, and click on my website **  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
"Wait a minute. She doesn't know you're alive, does she?"  
  
"I dosn't think so. I mean... I don't know. Does she?"  
  
"No. N-no. She can't. I mean... I-I would've heard about it. We would've had a conference call...Why haven't you told her?"  
  
" 'Hello, Buffy. It's Spike. I didn't burn up like you thought. How are things?' "  
  
"Uh...do you want me to tell her? 'Cauze I-I'm really good with those...uh, delicate personal- "  
  
"No. Don't tell her. I'll take care of it."  
  
"Got it. You're a loner... playin' it cucumber, as in 'cool as a...' "  
  
"Just keep your mouth shut."  
  
~ / ~  
  
Ever since he'd been re-corporealized, he'd been turning the question over in his mind, as to how and when and where to contact Buffy. He'd come pretty close to getting on that boat, and just going to her. But the more he thought about it.... The trouble wasn't so much his fear that the real thing wouldn't live up to the scenarios he'd worked out in his imagination - but that he couldn't even conceive a picture of how it might go. And he had a pretty good imagination. After all, he could barely believe it and it was all happening to him!   
  
So, he'd decided to just let things ride for a bit; not precipitate anything. Put her out of his mind, as best he could.  
  
Riiiight, just put her right out of your mind - like giving a cat the boot before bedtime. Sure... He knew he could just as easily reverse the earth's rotation. She'd never be out of his mind, not if he lived a millennium.  
  
But now, one of the Scooby circle knew that he was back. Eventually, Andrew was bound to blurt it out. He probably wouldn't mean to, he'd just start going on about how gallantly he'd engineered Dana's retrieval, and before he knew it, he'd be recounting details of Spike's presence and involvement in the whole episode, and possibly the disgustingness of his de- ... handification (?). Is there a word for that? Probably not. Hell, the boy'd probably claim he'd been the one to put Spike back together!  
  
Bugger! He'd have to decide something sooner or later...but not today.  
  
~ / ~  
  
Dear Buffy,  
  
He sat hunched over the table in the kitchen of the place he slept. He couldn't really think of it as his apartment. Too much odd about that Doyle bloke to trust the whole setup. He was still considering the roof as temporary.  
  
And, he was having no luck coming up with what to write.  
  
How's Rome these days? Remember to throw your pence in Trevi Fountain? Oh, by the way, I'm available to have a go at the Eurovamps, if you'll have me?  
  
He wadded the page up and sidearmed it into the far corner of what passed for a sitting room.  
  
Sooner or later...but not today.  
  
~ / ~  
  
It had seemed like a simple enough task. Wait for sundown, find a payphone, ask for help, talk to Buffy. Done.  
  
After a bit of looking, he found a much grafitti-ed phone mounted outside of a run-down convenience store. He checked the coin return for spare change (there was none), draped his arm across the top, leaned against the side, crossed one leg in front of the other in a pretense of nonchalance, grabbed the handset, and dialed "0". After a long pause, an excessively cheerful voice chirped in his ear, "Dialcom operator, how may I help you?"   
  
"Yeh, I'd like to make a long distance call."  
  
"Thank you, sir. If you give me the area code and telephone number I can put the call through, and tell you how many coins to deposit."  
  
"Well, thing is, I don't know the number. You'll need to find it for me."  
  
"I'm sorry sir, I'm the operator for the pay telephone company that owns the unit you are using. I'm not able to provide directory assistance services. If you call 1+the area code you're trying to reach+555-1212, long distance information can look up your number."  
  
"But I don't know the area code. Can you at least tell me that?  
  
"I can do that, sir. Please tell me the city and state?"  
  
"Rome."  
  
"Is that Rome, New York, sir?"  
  
"No, Rome, like where the bloody Pope lives."  
  
"Rome, Italy, sir?"  
  
The perkiness of those "sirs" was beginning to get on Spike's nerves. He took a deep breath before replying, "Yesss...Rome, Italy."  
  
"In that case, sir, you'll need to dial '00' for a long distance operator."  
  
"Right. Well then, thanks."  
  
He hung up and tried again.  
  
"International operator. Can I help you?" This one sounded bored, with a hint of a New York accent. Union, no doubt, and just counting the minutes to her next smoke break.  
  
"Yeh, I need to make a call to Rome, Italy."  
  
"Let me look up the country and city codes for you, please hol--." The musak began before she'd even finished her sentence. Spike drummed his fingers. A smoke was sounding pretty good right now. He fumbled in his duster pocket and had just lit up and re-draped himself over the phone when the operator returned. "That's country code 39, city code 6."  
  
"Right. So, I dial 1-3-9-6 and then-"  
  
"No, you dial 011 for international access first, then 39, then 6, then the phone number in Rome that you want."  
  
"Okay, so 011-39-6...but I also need to get the number I want. I don't know it."  
  
"Uh-huh...well, I can attempt to get that number. You're calling from a pay phone?"  
  
"Yeh."  
  
"Please deposit $3.50, and I can try to find the number you want."  
  
"I have one of those calling card-amabobs."  
  
"Well, then you'll need to call the customer service number on your calling card and they can put you through and charge it direct to the card."   
  
Spike leaned his head back against the plate glass storefront while one booted heel vented his growing frustration on the wall below the window. He gritted his teeth but managed to hold on to his temper. "Fine...I'll try them."  
  
"Thanks and have a nice d--."  
  
He pulled the card out of the pocket of his jeans. He'd nicked it along with the wallet of a would-be vamp snack he'd saved a few days before. Using some of the cash inside, he'd mailed the rest of the wallet back to its owner, but kept the phone card for this purpose. Scant payment for saving the git's life. Idiots, walking about in dark alleys at all hours of the night....  
  
He punched in the toll-free number printed on the back of the phone card with a bit more force than was strictly necessary, the smouldering cigarette between his fingers tracing runes of smoke in the air as his hand moved over the keypad.  
  
This time the operator was male. "MCT Call Pass Services, how can I help you."  
  
"Look here, Skippy, I'm trying to make a call to Rome, the one in Italy, and no one seems to be able to help me out. I'm banking on third try being the charm here. Otherwise, I just might not be responsible for what I do."  
  
"I see...," the voice replied warily. "Well...okay then. If you can give me the number, I can connect you."  
  
"That's part of the trouble, see...I just rang off with an ever so helpful long distance operator, who said she couldn't get me the number until I put some money in this bloody call box. I told her I had your card, so she said to call you. Now, I'm getting' impatient, and I'm feelin' pretty capable of crawling through this phone line, if that's what it takes, to make it happen."  
  
"Well...I see..." Skippy seemed to have an extensive vocabulary. The silence on the line lengthened until Spike began to wonder if he'd been disconnected. An eruption of fury was averted however, when the fellow cleared his throat nervously and finally continued, "I'm not supposed to do it this way, but since you've already gotten the run-around, I'll put you on hold, call the long distance operator back myself, and get either the number of the party you'd like, or for information in Italy. Why don't you give me the card number and PIN, so I can charge the cost to the card, and then patch you through?"  
  
Spike felt his frustration begin to dissipate, now that he seemed to be making headway. Funny how threats just always seem to make people more cooperative.   
  
He read the numbers off the bit of plastic, provided the name Summers-comma-Buffy, then settled back to wait, taking several deep soothing draws on his cigarette, and trying not to count the tink-tink-tinks of a moth battering itself against the yellowed glass dome of a light fixture mounted a foot or so above the payphone.  
  
Finally the young man came back on the line, explaining that his database couldn't locate a Buffy Summers in Italy, but that it wasn't updated particularly often. "I'll put you through to local information in Rome, and you can see if they can find the number for you."  
  
"Fine!" He dropped the butt of his cigarette and ground it out with his toe. He crossed his arms. He walked around to the other side of the phone, and gave the wall on that side a couple of new scuff marks. He uncrossed his arms. He was about to meander back to his original position, when the line finally picked up again.  
  
"Pronto! Che numero?"  
  
"Parliamo l'iglese?"  
  
"Si, I speek a leetle...the numbero you looking?"  
  
"The last name is Summers, Buffy Summers, or maybe just B. Summers." He was just a step below yelling into the phone, in the vain hope that an increase in volume would make the language more comprehensible to the Italian operator.  
  
"You spella the name?"  
  
"S - U - M - M - E - R - S, Buffy"  
  
"S - U - N - N -"  
  
"No, you nit, M - M ... M like in money, lira...!"  
  
"S - U - M - L -"  
  
"No, NO! No L...two M's.  
  
"S - U - M - M - E - R - S?"  
  
"Yes!" The relief that poured through Spike at this minor triumph was rudely interrupted by the electronic announcement that he had "one minute remaining on your MCT Call Pass."  
  
"SHITE!!"   
  
"Signore?! Che? Eh, what is....you are still here, eh?" Intending to holler at the electronic voice, he was, in fact, berating the very confused woman in Rome.  
  
"Sorry...Scusi! My calling card's about to run out of credit. Can we hurry this up a bit?"  
  
"Eh, si, si.....Is Summers, Bunny?"  
  
"No, not Bunny...Buffy! BUFFY!! B - U - F - F - Y."  
  
"Name is with two S, like the Summers?"  
  
Spike was becoming convinced that Psycho Slayer's work on him had been less painful than this project had become. "NO, IT'S A SODDIN' F - LIKE FLORENCE, eh, Firenze!!"  
  
"Si...un momento. I see no name like how you say. There is S - O - M - M - E - R - S, with just a B...this is maybe person you -- "  
  
"Yes, yes, just give me the number!!" But he was talking to himself. The line had clicked dead. Spike roared in frustration as he beat the receiver of the pay phone against the side of the box, prompting a young mother pushing a stroller to cross to the other side of the street.   
  
He still didn't know what he'd planned say to her, but he was hoping that perhaps hearing her voice would help him figure it out. Or, if not...hoping to just hear her voice.   
  
He might as well have saved himself the trouble. Evidently, today was not the day either.  
  
~ / ~  
  
"So y'see, Mate...'s like Fate 'erself's again' me...prolly shouldn't ev'n find the bird, sh's got 'er a life, don't need me bollocksing 't up fer 'er...'er 'n' the lil'bit...'s all I ev'r do, 's bollocksup ev'r'thin' I try.... "   
  
The bartender had clearly long since quit caring about Spike's tale of woe, and understood very little of it, save that there was a girl, and she was overseas, and he couldn't seem to contact her. For some reason. And that he seemed ambivalent about whether he should, except that being unable seemed make him want to. Or something. "Look buddy, you've had enough. I'm going to have to cut you off. Want me to call you a cab?"  
  
"Wassat? Cab? Nahhh, don' need a cab. Jus' fin' me a nice cozy alley t'fall down in...think how t' tell'er t'morrow." And he lurched to his feet, and staggered out the door, muttering how "t'morrow I'll figger 't out. Not t'day...."  
  
The bartender watched him go, absently wiping down the countertop, not entirely unmoved by the obvious pain he'd spent the last several hours witnessing. Maybe the girl'd left him because he drank too much, or ran around, or was some other sort of jerk. Then again, he'd heard enough sob stories to think this one might fall in the other category - of people who really cared about each other, but their timing was always wrong, or their families made trouble for them, or that in spite of their best efforts, they just couldn't seem to make it work. He'd run into those every once in a while. Those were the sad ones.  
  
He sighed, and began to rack clean glasses. He paused though, glancing at the clock. After a brief internal debate, he decided it wasn't too late for this phone call. He pulled out his cell, turned his back to the few patrons seated at tables, and hit a speed dial button.  
  
A sleepy voice answered on the fourth ring.  
  
"Heya, sweetie. Sorry to wake you up, but I wanted to tell you I love you."  
  
"Love you too, baby...what's brought this on at..." he could almost see her squinting at the clock radio across from their bed, and he smiled, "one-thirteen in the morning?"  
  
"Eh, just some guy in here all night, breaking his heart over his girl. Made me grateful to have you...to not be in his Doc Martins....you go back to sleep and I'll be home in a couple of hours."  
  
"Mmmmmm...," there was an obvious smile in her voice, "m'kay. Wake me up when you get here?"  
  
~ / ~  
  
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow   
  
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day   
  
To the last syllable of recorded time  
  
~ Macbeth  
  
To be continued?  
  
I don't know yet. It depends upon what the Big Man contrives over the rest of the season. Maybe there's a good opening for a follow up, and maybe there isn't. I'll decide sooner or later, but not today...  
  
~ Lynne C. ~ 


	2. Interlude

Sooner or Later  
  
Chapter 2 of ??  
  
by Lynne C.  
  
  
  
Rating: PG-13   
  
Disclaimer: It's all Joss' - I worship at the altar of his genius, and acknowledge that he owns all these folks and everything that they do and say.  
  
Setting/Spoilers: during Shells (AtS 5.16)  
  
Summary: Spike figured Andrew couldn't keep the secret of his return, but hasn't been able to do anything about it.   
  
Acknowledgements: Dialogue from shells comes from BuffyWorld.com   
  
** To view this story with all of its correct formatting, go to my profile page, and click on my website **  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
~ Interlude ~  
  
Bloody ironic. Story of m'life. Resolve not to get on that boat for one girl, and end up getting' on a plane for another. And to be only a time zone away from her...  
  
Spike opened his eyes as the steward returned with what he hoped was every drop of alcohol on the plane. He'd asked for a bottle of Jack Daniels as soon as they were in the air, foolishly assuming that it would be the real thing, not some cruel joke of a bottle that would fit inside a cigarette pack with room to spare. He'd just stared at the fellow, certain that he couldn't be serious. But serious he was, so Spike had sent him off to go get the rest of the stash.  
  
Now, he lined up these little toy soldiers, with the intent of knocking them down as quickly as possible. With their help, he might just be able to sleep away the rest of the flight. It turned out that the takeoff was the worst part. He'd sat braced and tense in the luxurious confines of his leather seat as the engines roared, and they gained speed, and finally nosed up into the air, spiraling slowly upwards before heading back out over the Atlantic. He could see enjoying the whole process, if he was in control of it - flying featured his favorite elements of speed and power, with a certain inherent danger thrown in for good measure. But as a passive participant, he wasn't in any hurry to repeat the performance.  
  
So, passenger planes - not his favorite thing. But since they'd reached cruising altitude, he'd moved past his concern about plummeting from many thousand feet into the waters below, and had been sitting with his eyes shut, trying to pretend that this was not one of the suckier days of his post-life. And not sucky in a warm-arterial-blood kind of way.  
  
Rather, in the couldn't-save-the-girl-again kind of way.  
  
And, also, in the going-further-away-from-instead-of-closer-to-his-heart's-desire kind of way.  
  
Now, he quickly poured one bottle after another down his throat, waiting for the welcome burn of the alcohol to overpower the ache that seemed to have taken out a lease in his chest cavity. Bottles one through four just made him curse the inconvenience of having to stop swallowing in order to set one down and pick another one up. Downing bottles five and six, he recalled the cute, ridiculous noise of dislike that Buffy made with each swallow of whiskey the night he took her to kitten poker. Damned, bloody, cute girl noise!! Bottles seven through nine were dedicated to thinking about not thinking about Buffy or Fred...or Dawn...or Tara...or anyone else he'd let down or otherwise couldn't manage to protect.  
  
By bottle eleven, he was just bored with the whole process.  
  
"Can't even get drunk!"   
  
It was the first either Spike or Angel had said aloud to one another in an hour or more. In the car back to the airport...sitting on the tarmac...through the beginning of the flight...they'd both maintained a stony silence, save for when it was utterly necessary give directions to those around them. Like, to order booze. Very necessary. At least, it had seemed like it. But now....  
  
"Why would anyone ever make a bottle this small?" He held it up in front of himself, pondering the true evil of the mind that had conceived such a thing. "It's inhuman."   
  
He spared a glance in Angel's direction, noting the characteristically broody set to the shoulders. He could almost hear the wrinkles in the acres-wide forehead. And he offered up the only consolation that he could conjure, hoping that perhaps if he said the words aloud, he'd find they didn't ring as hollow as they did in his head. "Thousands would have died if we'd saved her."  
  
"Yeah." Thus speaks the monosyllabic one...and, no, it didn't sound any better out loud.   
  
He tried again, though. "She wouldn't have wanted that." This much he knew to be true, without question.  
  
"Yeah." Angel exhaled deeply before continuing, "I tried calling Wes. There was no answer."  
  
Spike hadn't realized he'd still been holding onto a thread of hope for Fred's survival until he felt it go slack. Damn! "I guess she's gone, then." So goddamnedfucking unfair!   
  
His gaze fell back on his vain attempt to escape that reality. "It's like a bloody tease," he ranted, holding bottle number twelve up. "It's like, 'Here's what a bottle of Jack would look like if you actually had one,' or," he held it away at arms length, and regarded it through the spyglass of his other hand, "'here's a drink, but it's very far away.' "   
  
"What does that mean? Really?"  
  
What's he mean, "what does that mean??" "It's a play on perspective," he explained, with a bit of exaggerated patience, holding the bottle up and wiggling it for Angel to see.  
  
"Gone. What does it mean that she's gone?"  
  
"Well, in the world of men, a person dies, they stay that way."  
  
"Unless you're a vampire."  
  
"Or the ghost of one that saved the world."  
  
"Or Buffy. Death doesn't have to be the end, not in our world. Rules can be broken. All you have to do... is push hard enough."  
  
They lapsed back into silence, Spike cursing to himself all over again. Having hope was probably the only thing worse than not having it. Angel's inescapable, counter-intuitive logic had made that little thread spring taut again. No doubt to be dashed all over later, Spike mused. Isn't that how it generally works? Sooner or later, the inevitable disappointment.... But on further reflection, he could admit that he'd always been a slave to that hope, and wasn't likely to change. He even used to revel in his own dogged determination to maintain that sliver of an inkling of a dream, no matter how impossible it's fulfillment. So, he'd hope, and follow any last possibility until it was, at last, well and truly obliterated, because he really couldn't do anything else.  
  
That acknowledgement brought a certain fatalistic peace with it. Spike closed his eyes, and sleep flitted about the edges of his consciousness, though his mind wandered for some time before it claimed him. When he awoke on their arrival at LAX, he couldn't remember much of the ground that he'd mentally meandered -- an image here, a memory there. But hope, however ill-fated, had forged an idea, one that he remembered very clearly.  
  
It wasn't anything that he could act on today. But, eventually, Angel would turn his back on that cellphone of his, and Spike would capitalize on the opportunity to examine the numbers in the speed dial - check and see if any of them were international - say, to Italy! Nope, not today, but sooner or later...  
  
~ / ~  
  
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow   
  
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day   
  
To the last syllable of recorded time  
  
~ Macbeth  
  
To be continued?  
  
Yep, I expect. I don't know exactly how, yet. It depends upon what the Big Man contrives over the rest of the season. I'll decide sooner or later, but not today...  
  
~ Lynne C. ~ 


	3. Inertia

Sooner or Later  
  
Chapter 3 of 4  
  
by Lynne C.  
  
Rating: PG-13   
  
Disclaimer: It's all Joss' - I worship at the altar of his genius, and acknowledge that he owns all these folks and everything that they do and say.  
  
Setting/Spoilers: after _The Girl in Question_ (AtS 5.20)  
  
Summary: Spike figured Andrew couldn't keep the secret of his return, but hasn't been able to do anything about it.   
  
Acknowledgements: Dialogue from TGiQ comes from BuffyWorld.com   
  
To view this story with all of its correct formatting, go to my profile page, and click on my website   
  
_** Inertia **_  
  
They were both leaning wearily, and disgustedly, and a bit dejectedly, against the edge of Angel's desk.   
  
"So, what? We just have to live with it? Get on with our lives?"  
  
" 'Fraid so."   
  
"Fine," replied Spike with a sigh, and perhaps the barest hint of a sniffle. "No problem. I was plannin' on doin' that anyway."  
  
"Yeah, me, too."  
  
"Actually, I'm doin' it right now. As we speak, I'm movin' on."  
  
"Movin' on."  
  
"Oh, yeah."  
  
They were silent for a moment, before Angel asserted once again, "Right now."  
  
"Movin'."  
  
And so they had remained for some time, until Harmony had buzzed to inform Angel that some Grevlok demon was demanding to be seen right away something about having some sensitive information that might be of interest to the High Relish King of a rival Grevlok family. It sounded to Spike like some tedious attempt at blackmail. It also sounded like she was trying to say, "High Rhyloshkn'q", and failing, utterly. Either way, it was nothing he cared to stick around and listen to.  
  
His sigh, as he used his boot to lever himself off the front edge of the desk, was barely distinguishable from an extra-deep breath. Barely…. He hoped halfheartedly that he'd left a big shoe print in the middle of the polish that made the surface of the wood gleam. But, he couldn't care quite enough to look back and check.  
  
He wished briefly that he still had the ability to pass through solid objects. Leaving a room without bothering to open a door could be convenient when one was supremely unmotivated.   
  
He opened the door, not bothering to close it again. As he headed towards the elevator, he heard Angel's voice behind him, calling for Harmony to put the Grevlok into a conference room and get it some bile or phlegm or whichever of the humours that particular class of demon called a refreshment.  
  
Spike was tired. Not lack of rest, tired, or just had a big fight and halfway-across-the-world chase tired. He was the kind of spirit-tired that communicated itself to the limbs, and stole every ounce of desire for movement. He felt sluggish, like he was wading through cement that grew more and more solid by the moment. Each step might be the last before it solidified and he'd be stuck mid-stride forever. Until some entity figured out how to chip him out, in hopes that he'd bring on yet another Apocalypse, or open a portal, or tear down dimensional walls.   
  
He did manage a humorless laugh that sounded dull and flat inside the elevator that he rode to the garage. Except, he wondered further, if one incanted at his solidified form, what would be released at the end? A great cataclysm of lovesick pathos? Perhaps a flood of denial would cover the face of the earth? _Get it? Denial? Da Nile? Floods?_ A snort of self-mockery was his answer to the little voice in his head.  
  
When the elevator stopped, he stepped into the cool dark cavern that was the Wolfram & Hart garage. He surveyed the riches of horsepower laid out before him. Then, he leaned against the wall beside the elevator and closed his eyes.  
  
_Where d'ya think you're gonna go? Get hammered 'n' whored, maybe? Yeh, that's movin' on a'right. Classic style, Spike, but won' change nothin'. 'Sides, don' fancy any second-rate stand-ins.  
_  
His lean became a slide, and he found himself sitting on the floor of the garage.  
  
It wasn't like he didn't know that she deserved some carefree years, without commitments of either the world-save-age or the settling-down variety. Not that he'd ever want her to truly "settle down." _But still...she's what? Twenty-two? No, twenty-three, now. She **should** dance, and drink (moderately),_ Spike shook his head ruefully at how little alcohol she could handle, _and shag just because it feels good, and none of it fall into the life-or-death, be-all-and-end-all categories._ He **_knew_** all this.  
  
And he wanted her to be happy. He _**really**_ did. But it was different to **see** her happy and know that he had no part in it, and to suspect that that happiness would be extinguished if he made her aware of his continued existence.  
  
Times like this made him wish it really had just all ended in the Hellmouth. In that moment, they understood each other completely. He had released her, and had committed himself to doing that "far, far better thing" than he'd ever done before. He'd wanted her to live, and live _**completely**_. But then, he hadn't expected that he'd be having to live with the idea of her living happily without him.  
  
Maybe this was part of his penance. To have to back those sentiments up with action. Or, in this case, with inaction.  
  
_She's got a right to know, though, donn't she? She's always hated folks what's made decisions for 'er, even if for 'er best interests….Resents it, 'n' gets mighty pissed off.  
  
Bugger!_  
  
It was almost Hamlet-esque, this internal debate, and his ongoing inability to act. Now, here he was, sitting on a garage floor, wrestling with the thing again! So much simpler when the "thing" was something whose arms could be ripped off, for use as a club against it. This, on the other hand…emotions, and right and wrong, and lesser of evils…things you couldn't put your hand on, but that gnawed at the gut and the heart as surely as any monster in the night would.  
  
His instinct from the first moment had been just to run to her – wherever she was, however he needed to find her. But he'd been stymied by the details – and afraid of the variables. And finally, just thwarted by roadblocks when he **had** tried to take decisive action.  
  
Maybe that was his answer. Circumstances had seemed determined to keep her ignorant of him. Why fight it?   
  
He now realized just how much had changed in a year. The Andrew of the failed-funnel-cakes was not the Andrew he'd just seen in Rome. This Andrew probably wouldn't spill the beans accidentally. He'd keep his word, at least until such time as there was a good reason to do otherwise. And, of course, it had been the Andrew wild-card that had begun him on his campaign to Let Buffy Know in the first place….  
  
Spike leaned his head back against the smooth wall of the garage. One forearm rested on an upraised knee. His other leg stretched out in front of him.   
  
The words of the song he'd sung under Sweet's influence returned to him: _"Let me rest in peace.…" 'S what I need. T' just find some peace.  
_  
He was motionless for many minutes, trying to absorb the cool quiet of the subterranean chamber into himself, to lay it like a blanket over the loneliness he'd been contending with for some time, and the mis-placed sense of rejection that had been added to it when he'd realized Buffy had chosen to be with someone else. He mentally smoothed that calm over her not needing to be saved. He tucked it around the corners of her not needing him.  
  
He took a deep, slightly shaky breath, and blinked away the dampness that had gathered in the corners of his eyes. He slowly picked himself up off the floor, just as the elevator dinged, announcing a new arrival.  
  
"Oh, Spike! I, er, thought you'd left some time ago."  
  
"Yeh, well, couldn't think where t'go. Just been 'ere contemplatin'. Where you off to?" Spike noted the weariness that seemed to have become a permanent feature of the erstwhile Watcher's face. They all ached over Fred's loss, but seeing Wesley's struggle since then was almost more painful, if for no other reason than that it seemed there would be no end to it.  
  
Wesley stopped and stared off into the distance, through the wall of the garage, at god-only-knew-what.  
  
His gaze finally returned to Spike. "I really don't know either. Just away. From here. For a little while."  
  
_Guess there's always a sadder-sack than one's self somewhere…_  
  
"Oi! I heard of an indoor shootin' range in town. Could go blow some shit up…."  
  
"Yes. Yes, I suppose it couldn't hurt."  
  
So, Spike put one foot in front of the other, falling into step with Wesley, and found that he had moved on, at least to the degree that it was within his nature to do so. Without consciously making a resolution, he realized that he felt capable of putting in one day at a time, enjoying as much as he could along the way, suffering her absence all over again by times, but soldiering on, living and fighting and waiting. Sooner or later, The Fates would bring their paths to a crossing. And then…well, that wasn't a thought for today. Sooner or later, but not today.  
  
_ /   
  
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow   
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day   
To the last syllable of recorded time  
**Macbeth**_  
  
To be continued?  
  
Yep, one more. Not sure when I'll get to it. Sooner or later…but not today!  
  
_ Lynne C. _


End file.
